


Dirty Little Secrets

by eilonwy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, HP: EWE, Humor, Magical Artifacts, Partnership, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, Workplace Relationship, spells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-24
Updated: 2010-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:38:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eilonwy/pseuds/eilonwy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A distasteful work assignment that neither Draco nor Hermione can get out of becomes far more than they bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Little Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Hawthorne & Vine's 2010 Reverse Challenge.

“Draco.”

Silence, a rather palpable one. The sort of silence one could spread on bread, rather like Marmite—thick, and threatening complete impenetrability.

_“Draco.”_

There was the barest grunt from the other side of the room, a law office housing two members of a team of solicitors working for the Ministry.

_“MALFOY!”_

“Look. ” The reply, when it came at last, was an exercise in controlled patience faintly tinged with weariness. “Contrary to what you might believe, I am not deaf. I was listening to every word you said." _And even the bollocks you didn’t say._ "Wizard’s honour. Now can I please get back to what I was doing? Serious business here.”

Hermione Granger threw a baleful glance at her partner. He was tilted back in his chair at an alarming angle, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles on the desk, his head thrown back and resting in the cup of fingers interlaced behind his head.

An exasperated sigh escaped her and she folded her arms and glared at him. “We’ve got a _case_. You haven’t even _read_ the brief yet, much less written it up. And for your information, Middleton’s called this week’s meeting for three. _Today_. He’s going to expect updates from everybody, you know that!” _Gods, how did I get stuck with such an utter waste of space?_

Draco Malfoy let out a deep and rather windy sigh and sat up, swinging his legs to the floor and resting his chin in his palm. He fixed a long-suffering gaze on Hermione.

“For _your_ information, Granger, not only have I read the brief, I have written a quite thorough analysis of the case for the meeting this afternoon. It’s all here, in this folder.” He inclined his head to the right, where, on the spartan desk, there lay a forest-green folder with the Ministry’s seal on the front. Turning back to her once again, he smiled, shark-like. His impossibly white teeth gleamed. “As you see. Care to take a gander? Make sure all the i’s are dotted and the t’s crossed? Can’t have my esteemed partner at sixes and sevens during the meeting, now can I? Makes me look bad.”

 _Oh._ And then, _Damn._ He _would_ be completely prepared after all. He’d probably done it just to spite her. When was the last time he’d been prepared in a timely manner for a weekly staff meeting? Too long ago to dredge up the memory.

Huffing indignantly, Hermione held out her hand. She was feeling seriously cross all of a sudden, and what’s more, one of her dreaded migraines had begun to hover ominously behind her eyes.

“Right, then. Let’s have it. I really should look over what you’ve done. Here’s mine,” she added, taking his folder and holding out one of her own.

Draco gave her a salute with the tips of two fingers and accepted her folder, flipping it carelessly onto his blotter and returning to his recumbent position, eyes closed and feet crossed once again on top of the desk, Hermione’s folder a scant inch away from his heels.

Grinding her teeth was a bad habit that Hermione Granger had fallen into in the last two years, coinciding, not surprisingly, with the start of her time sharing an office and a caseload with Malfoy. Her parents, who still took care of her teeth, were horrified but helpless to deter the habit. Right now, she caught herself clenching her jaw angrily, and took a deep breath. _Relax. He’s just trying to play me. He’ll read it. At the last possible minute. When I’m ready to kill him. Well…_ Here, her mouth tightened in a determined line. _… he won’t get a rise out of me. Not this time._

She raised her arms in a luxuriant stretch, flexing her back, and smiled brightly. Her tone was light, casual. “I could do with a coffee and some biscuits from the food trolley. Care for anything, Draco? Coffee? Tea?” _Hemlock?_

His eyes still shut, Draco waved her away, a lazy smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

Dismissed! So rude. And so typical too. What on earth was the point of trying to be friendly, or even merely civil? Her attempts to rise above his persistent needling, be the better, more grown-up one—after all, they’d been out of Hogwarts for eight years, wasn’t it about time?—were utterly wasted. Why did she never learn? For all his breeding, the man had the manners and the maturity of a six-year-old.

Turning on her heel, Hermione stalked out the door, catching herself just before she slammed it. _Just… breathe…_ She inhaled deeply and then released the pent-up breath, smiling brightly. _There. Better. See? I_ can _do this._

She strode down the hall, shoulders high, the smile still plastered on her face. Meanwhile, back in their office, there was a snort of laughter. Merlin, he did love this job.

*

“Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy… your current case, if you would be so kind.” Cepheus Middleton, the Ministry’s Head Solicitor, regarded his two newest staffers with something akin to tolerance under extreme duress. On the one hand, there was the Granger girl. Very bright, though sometimes a bit naïve and lacking in imagination, she was also dedicated, absurdly industrious, and almost too eager to please. It became a bit wearying at times.

Then there was Malfoy. Glib and charming when the mood struck him, he was book-smart like Hermione Granger, but more than that, he was rather canny in other ways as well. He could read people. And he was a risk-taker with the heart and the _cojones_ of a high-stakes gambler. Middleton knew he could trust Malfoy’s gut nine times out of ten. But the boy was easily bored with the scut work of the job, sloppy and careless when it was imperative to be precise and meticulous. He could be lazy, a bit of a dilettante. Appointments, Owled messages, information that had to move through certain channels… these often dull, routine facets of the work seemed to matter far too little to Draco Malfoy. Often, he chose not to bother with them, leaving them to his partner instead.

Cepheus Middleton knew this. It was precisely the reason he had partnered the two of them together in the first place. Each picked up the other’s slack, ultimately complementing each other beautifully—that is, when they weren’t about to tear each other’s hair out. Which was more often than not. Together, when things were going well, they were his newest, most promising dream team. Taken separately, or when they were behaving like a pair of two-year-olds, they could be absolute murder on an old man’s peace of mind, not to mention his blood pressure.

“Go on, Granger,” came the whisper in her ear. “He’s singing our song. Knock yourself out.”

Hermione cast a quick, sidelong glance at Draco, who now sat smiling pleasantly on her right, his arms folded, and then turned to her boss with her most winning expression.

“Yes, of course, Mr. Middleton. We’re ready. Absolutely. Yes.”

At the other end of the conference table, Cepheus Middleton fought down the urge to cast a beleaguered glance heavenward. He hoped fervently that young Mr. Malfoy would do everyone a favour and find a way to rein in Miss Granger’s over-zealous proclivities. He did not like being fawned upon. It upset his digestion.

Sensing their boss’s impatience, Draco leaned closer to Hermione. He spoke into her ear once again, his warm breath ruffling her hair slightly.

“Leave it, Granger. The old man’s about to blow.” He paused. “And so am I.”

Hermione’s chin came up slightly at that. He _would_ say something horrid, when all she was doing was being polite and professional. She continued smiling at her boss, giving her partner an almost imperceptible nod before resuming.

“Right, yes… the case is Harker v. Harker. The husband, Crispin Harker, is suing his wife for divorce on the grounds of adultery.”

“Buckets of it, apparently,” Draco snickered. “Reckon half of wizarding England’s had her, according to the statement from--”

“Thanks, Malfoy. I think everybody gets the picture,” Hermione cut in.

Titters rippled around the conference table.

“Indeed. No doubt there will be plenty of time for all the sordid details later,” Middleton remarked drily. “Proceed.”

“ _As_ I was saying…” Hermione began again, slanting a brief look of irritation at her partner, who lounged back in his chair and gave her an unrepentantly cheery wink. “The grounds for the suit are repeated counts of adultery. Mr. Harker allegedly has incontrovertible evidence of these… episodes…”

“That’s one way of putting it!” Draco muttered, smirking. At Hermione’s frown, he threw up his hands in surrender and then settled back to listen, an eyebrow cocked in obvious amusement.

“On the other hand, Mrs. Harker--” she soldiered on, a slight edge in her voice.

“The former Gisela Ferrara,” her partner cut in, and then shrugged innocently when Hermione turned narrowed eyes on him again. “Hey, just trying to be helpful.”

“Gosh, thanks,” Hermione snapped, beginning to fume in earnest now. Her partner merely flashed her an angelic little smile amidst unabashed laughter all around them. It seemed their colleagues were quite enjoying the ridiculous spectacle that passed for a professional relationship between her and Malfoy.

She could feel a blush pinking her cheeks. Prats, the lot of them. They were no better than he was, apparently. Well, she could wait. And so she did, her fingers drumming a pattern on the table as the laughter gradually died away.

At last, the room was quiet. Glaring at Draco and silently daring him to interrupt her again, she cleared her throat. “Mrs. Harker is pursuing a counter-suit, alleging infidelities on her husband’s part. There’s quite a lot at stake in this divorce proceeding. The Harkers own a number of properties, the value of which is nearly inestimable. In addition, there are--”

“Horses. They’ve got a stable of thoroughbreds, mostly Arabians. Besides that?” Draco paused, allowing the question to hang dramatically in the air for a moment. He could feel Hermione quietly seething beside him. Unrepentant, he continued. “Cars. Quite pricey ones. Seems the lovely Mrs. Harker developed a taste for them as a result of a liaison with a Muggle. MP, or so Harker alleges. Power broker, big time.”

He had everyone’s rapt attention now. Ah well, Granger just did not know how to work a room. She should take a few tips from someone who did.

Cepheus Middleton shook his head and expelled a heavy sigh. “A bad business, all of it. Potentially explosive. Anything else we need to know at this juncture?”

Both Draco and Hermione shook their heads.

“Right, then. The two of you are going to do a bit of after-hours sleuthing before this case goes forward. I want you to see what you can dig up, find out if this so-called ‘evidence’—or anything else that would substantiate their allegations—actually exists, and if it does, whether there’s anything to it.”

Hermione and Draco glanced at each other and then she sat forward in her chair. “Um… I was just wondering… exactly what will this involve for us?”

Middleton’s smile was smug, though he tried very hard not to let it show. His plan, if it worked, was pure genius. “Oh, nothing too strenuous, I don’t suppose. They’re avoiding each other like the plague, so it will depend on where each of them is. Weekend or two at the estate in Devon or the place on the Italian Riviera, perhaps a party at their digs here in town. Tough assignment. Think you two can manage it?”

The question went unanswered, as Middleton knew it would. Both of them would do what was required, like it or not, if they wanted to keep their jobs. Somehow, he had a sneaking suspicion that Malfoy, at least, could manage to find certain redeeming elements of the experience without too much difficulty. With his background, the territory, at least, would be fairly familiar. Granger, on the other hand, would be less sanguine about it. Neither of them would be happy about the kicker, however.

He cleared his throat. In unison, Draco and Hermione looked up expectantly.

“One more thing, sorry.” Pause. “You’ll be posing as a couple.”

“A couple of what?” Draco drawled, halfway to his customary semi-reclining position in the chair. This had to be a joke, surely.

“A _couple_ , Malfoy,” Hermione said dully, her face stiff with the struggle to mask her growing dismay. “You know. As in—”

“Got it, yeah.” He raised a hand to forestall an even more painfully specific explanation from her, and then let it drop to his lap, resigned. Weekends, _plural._ With _Granger_. Or rather, _with_ Granger. Fucking hell. This really was above and beyond. Even he wasn’t that good an actor.

From the head of the conference table, Cepheus Middleton regarded his two young staffers speculatively. They would get the job done. That much was not in doubt. How they would manage it was something else entirely. His hope was that they would emerge from the experience as the smoothly functioning, dynamic team he believed they could be. Of course, the whole gamble could blow up in his face, and they could wind up even more dysfunctional as a unit than they were already.

Sink or swim, it was down to that. He hoped that the two of them could at least keep their heads above water.

*

The late-model Mazda RX8 cruised along the M4, heading west out of London. Currently, its occupants were not speaking to each other. The driver, her mouth a tightly drawn line, gazed straight ahead, unwilling to acknowledge the presence of her passenger. He might as well have been a speck of lint on the upholstery, for all the notice she was currently taking of him.

He sat nearly plastered to the door, his face turned defiantly towards the scenery flashing past the window. He hadn’t wanted to travel to Devon this way, but she’d insisted. The woman was daft. And so bloody stubborn! Apparating would have made so much more sense. Or—what was wrong with the Floo Network? They could have cut the journey down to practically nothing, and his time trapped with her would have been that much less.

As it was, they would be spending the next two days—precious personal time that he was loathe to relinquish, no matter what the reason—playing charades of a sort. He would have to do his bit to persuade a segment of very posh wizarding society that he and Hermione Granger, of all people, were in a serious relationship. And he would have to do it over the course of a country weekend spent at the Harker family seat in Devon. Forty-eight hours in which to pull off a feat that would put even the most impressive spell to shame. No magic required—just pure, unadulterated bullshit. Well, he thought with a rueful grin, no worries there, not really. He was good at that too.

Oddly enough, Hermione’s thoughts were running along much the same lines, though they were far less complimentary. Imagining the next two days was currently filling her with dread. No doubt Malfoy would be able to talk his way around anything and anyone. He always had done, as long as she’d known him; it was a positive talent of his, though being perpetually full of shit wasn’t exactly what she would call a wonderful attribute. More than that, though, he’d grown up around these sorts of people. He’d be in his element. None of that was true of her. How in the name of Merlin would she manage to convince a houseful of Harker’s weekend guests-- all of them well-heeled, influential, old-money pure-bloods, or at the very least, flamboyantly nouveau riche and able to buy their way into favour—that a man like Draco Malfoy would be seriously interested in a woman like her? The very idea was laughable, really. Or insane. Or both.

She wondered briefly what could have possessed her boss to insist on this “couple” thing. They could have accomplished what they were being sent for without that added complication. Except… Middleton had said, she recalled dismally, that Crispin Harker would be more likely to open up to her if he believed her to be unavailable, hence more of a conquest. It seemed he was an _aficionado_ of the hunt, and the more unattainable the prey, the better he liked it. The same was apparently true of his estranged wife, who sounded rather like a barracuda herself where men were concerned.

The very thought of what might well lie ahead with Harker made her skin crawl even more than the scenario she would have to enact with Malfoy. She dreaded the possibility of having to fend off unwanted advances from a man more than twice her age. And there was something else, something that might render all of that moot in any case. She was passably attractive, she supposed, but certainly no raving beauty, not the sort of woman that men look at twice and hunger for. Even if she managed to pass as Malfoy’s girlfriend, that was hardly a guarantee that Harker would seek her out and open up to her in any meaningful way. Oh, he would tell them both what he wanted them to hear, of course. But Middleton expected far more than that. He wanted what was between the lines, what Harker might let slip when his guard was down. It was daunting, all of it. Two days seemed an awfully long time, suddenly. And this weekend was just the beginning.

From his side of the car, Draco glanced at his wristwatch. They’d been on the road for nearly two hours now. Forced confinement in this tin on wheels was becoming excruciating. He attempted to stretch his long legs, but even with the seat positioned all the way back, the leg room was insufficient for real comfort.

“Where are we anyway?” he grumbled, breaking the silence at last. “I’m famished, and I need to have a pee. We’d have been there _hours_ ago if you’d--”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but did not turn her head. She sighed deeply. What a baby. “Stop whinging, Malfoy. We’re just outside Bristol, which means we’re more than halfway there. We can stop for lunch in a few minutes. If you really can’t wait.”

“Still don’t have a clue why you insisted on using Muggle transport,” Draco muttered peevishly. “We could have done a Side-along. Or Flooed. This is definitely one of your more arse-brained ideas, Granger. You don’t want to be stuck here in this car with me any more than I want to be stuck here with you. So… I’m curious. How come?”

“I _thought_ ,” she replied with forced patience, “that the time spent driving would give us a chance to go over our strategy for the weekend, make sure we’ve got our stories straight, discuss the case notes. But you’ve been in a strop the entire ride. The last thing you said, which was about…”—she glanced quickly at her watch—“… three hours ago, was ‘get the silver one.’ Brilliant, Malfoy. As if the colour of our hired car matters in the slightest!”

His expression turned smug, and he folded his arms.

“Trust me,” he assured her. “It matters. Everything does. How we arrive will make an impression. A Muggle car is still something strange and exotic to most of that lot. Might as well make it a sexy one they’ll all fancy. Naturally, you wouldn’t agree to the sort of car _I_ wanted--”

“Of course not!” Hermione retorted. “Can you imagine Middleton’s reaction if we’d put the cost of hiring _that_ car on our expense account? It would have cost the Ministry a small fortune. He’d have had our heads! Besides, this car is just as nice.”

“Hardly. Though I reckon it’ll do. At least this silver model is sleek and--”

“Sexy. Right. I get it.” Was that all he thought about, the gauge for measuring everything? Hermione gave a small sigh and turned off the motorway, pointing the car towards Bristol and a quick rest stop.

*

Just over ninety minutes later, half an hour of that time devoted to a fast (and largely inedible, according to Malfoy) lunch and filling up the tank with petrol, they turned into the long, private road that wound through the lawns and gardens of the Harker estate. Magnificent, mature trees and shrubbery dotted the lushly expansive lawns that seemed to stretch on for miles, finally ending in a gravelled area directly in front of the house.

The gracious manor house stood, pristine white against the green of the ancient trees that framed it. It was quite old—somewhere between two and three hundred years, Hermione was certain—but beautifully preserved. She made a mental note to ask about its history at the first opportunity, and reached to open the car door.

Almost the moment the engine had stopped purring, the front door had opened. Now, a man hurried down the graduated steps towards the car. In his early sixties, he was someone for whom life had probably been a bit _too_ kind: his clothes, impeccably tailored and expensive, could not hide a body that sagged now on his tall frame. His dark hair had begun to thin and was quite grey at the temples, and his face—lined, a bit fleshy, its complexion florid—told the story of too many years of rich food and drink, and countless other excesses. However, his smile, a remnant of the rakish good looks he’d enjoyed before years of dissipation took their toll, was still charming as he approached.

He reached them just as both Draco and Hermione stepped outside.

“Ah, greetings!” the man said heartily. “My team of solicitors, I presume?”

They nodded.

“I am Crispin Harker. Welcome to my home. Did you have a pleasant journey?” Without waiting for their response, he continued. “I see you chose a rather unconventional mode of travel.” His brief laugh was somewhat hollow for all his efforts to sound jovial. “Muggle motor cars. My wonderful wife’s current obsession, don’t you know.”

“Hermione Granger. How do you do?” Hermione stepped forward, sticking out her hand. Harker accepted it, enveloping it within both of his as he allowed his gaze to meander down her body; it lingered on the bit of cleavage that peeked out from the opening of her blouse before returning reluctantly to her face.

“Charmed, Miss Granger,” he replied, his eyes remaining fixed on her. It felt to Hermione as if he were dissecting each of her features one by one. Blushing, she smiled politely.

“May I introduce Draco Malfoy, my… my partner… and… my—”

“Fiancé.” Draco hadn’t missed a beat. Quickly closing the space between them, he slipped an arm about Hermione’s waist, pulling her close, and offered his other hand, the barest hint of a smirk on his face.

Reluctantly, Harker relinquished Hermione’s hand and shook Draco’s.

“Mr. Malfoy,” he murmured, his eyes returning to Hermione, who was pressed firmly against Draco. “I expect that you and your lovely fiancée will conclude this unfortunate business with all due dispatch.”

“I expect we will do, Mr. Harker, never you fear,” Draco drawled, the smirk gaining purchase now. He gave Hermione a playful but visibly proprietary squeeze, drawing her even closer. This Harker bloke was certainly living up to his reputation. The slimy git had already stripped Granger naked and shagged her six ways to Sunday in his head, and they’d hardly got past “how do you do.”

“You want to watch yourself, Granger,” he murmured in her ear moments later, as they trailed up the steps behind Harker. “Filthy-minded old bastard’s probably got _you_ on the menu for afters tonight.”

Startled, Hermione cast a sidelong glance at him and then her mouth quirked in a sardonic smile. “Gosh, Malfoy. I didn’t know you cared. You needn’t worry, though,” she added. “I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

That point was debatable. Draco arched an eyebrow at her but held his tongue as they entered the house.

“And by the way,” she hissed, once Harker was even further out of earshot. “I know we have to make everybody believe we’re together, but don’t push it!” She could still feel the warmth and pressure of his arm snugly circling her waist, the sensation of his body pressing against hers, the clean, pleasant scent of his skin... The memory of it made her feel oddly off balance, and she didn’t like it.

“Don’t get your lacies in a twist, Granger. Believe me, I’ve no desire to have you for afters or at _all_ , for that matter. That was all just a lot of show.”

“Right. All show. I feel the same way exactly. It’s good we understand each other,” she murmured, her brows knitted in a small frown. It was good, wasn’t it? Perfect, in fact, and clearly, he agreed. He hadn’t been reacting to _her_ at _all_ , that much was obvious. Right, then. Nodding to herself, she picked up her pace, moving ahead slightly. She was ready to get this damned show over with.

From a few paces behind, Draco watched Hermione. She moved purposefully, the wispy tendrils of hair that had escaped her messy bun fluttering as she walked. They weren’t the only things moving with each stride, he noticed. She was wearing a narrow pencil skirt and fitted jacket over a low-cut blouse instead of her usual, more conservative trouser suit—probably on instruction from Middleton—and the clingy material hugged curves Draco hadn’t even known were there. She walked with a sinuous, rippling grace that was suddenly, surprisingly mesmerising.

Well, thank Merlin for small favours, anyway. This charade might not be quite such an ordeal after all, he told himself. It might even be almost fun.

Almost.

He reminded himself of who it was he’d just been ogling. With a short bark of incredulous laughter, he shook his head, hoisted his weekend bag over his shoulder, and hurried to catch up.

*

By ten o’clock, the party had fanned out into various parts of the house, spilling over through sets of French doors in a sitting room, a reception room, and the formal dining room into generous gardens at the back. Illuminated by tiny fireflies magicked to hover together in glowing clusters, the gardens were enchanting on this summer night. Cool, seductive jazz oozed from a corner of the patio, where musicians played, refreshing themselves with large, highly alcoholic drinks that refilled themselves automatically as the night wore on.

House-elves materialised with startling frequency, circulating amongst the guests with trays of savoury hors d’oeuvres and glasses of fine champagne. Conversation punctuated by trills of well-heeled laughter and clinking glasses filled the air.

The company was certainly interesting. Hermione stood in the shadows on the stone patio, drink in hand, watching. Such parties were like a sociological experiment waiting to unfold. She’d already lost count of who had hooked up or was currently hooking up with whom and what intrigues were bubbling behind the scenes, but it was obvious that an awful lot that _didn’t_ meet the eye was happening, nevertheless. Tonight’s assignment, or part of it at least, was to sort all of those intrigues out and find out how willing Harker’s friends might be to betray him.

“What d’you reckon all that jewellery’s worth? Half the contents of Gringott’s, I bet.” The murmur in her ear was low, its tone drolly amused.

Hermione’s mouth twitched even as she continued to look straight ahead, taking a slow sip of her drink.

“Yes, well. All this sort of thing…” She gestured expansively at the throng of party guests busy indulging in a lavish array of foods and drinks. “I suppose it’s just… just normal for you, isn’t it?”

Turning to face him, she raised an eyebrow expectantly.

“Mmm.” Draco nodded, straight-faced. “Caviar and a Buck’s Fizz at breakfast every morning, and truffles and foie gras for tea. It’s been quite the life.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Foie gras! Ugh! Have you any idea what they _do_ to those poor ducks and geese, to make their livers fatty enough for foie gras? _Have_ you? It’s just obscene!” Considering the gravity of this issue, his utter calm was absolutely infuriating.

Granger was up on her high horse again. He knew the scenario well by now. The thing was, she’d become so easy to rile, it was almost pathetic. More often than not, the silly cow practically did the job for him, managing to wind herself right up, usually over a load of absolute rubbish. No challenge in it anymore, which was rather a shame, really. He did love a good challenge.

Just at the moment, though, she looked as if she were about to explode. That was it. He could hold it no longer and burst out laughing, her self-righteous ire inviting fresh waves of mirth.

“I was having you on, you silly bint,” he sighed at last. “Joking. Ha ha. Get it? You know, Granger, for a smart woman, you can be incredibly thick sometimes. Oh, and by the way, I do not eat foie gras. Ever. I detest the stuff.”

“But…!” Hermione sputtered, setting her drink down on the table and then turning back to Draco, incredulous. “Regardless! You still—”

Reaching out, he laid two fingers on her lips, surprising her into momentary silence, and then leaned in so close that his breath stirred the tiny, fine hairs curling behind her ear. “Come on, Hermione,” he whispered. “Truce. You can harass me to your heart’s content later, I promise.”

Then, flashing her a rakish grin, as if he’d just shared a deliciously naughty secret, he took her arm, propelling her forward into the thick of the crowd.

*

The bedroom, it seemed, had not been altered significantly since the house had been built nearly three hundred years earlier. Dark panelling, intricately carved, covered the walls. A generously proportioned four-poster bed covered in luxuriant pillows and a fluffy, white duvet invited restful repose as well as other, more energetic activities. A rich mahogany dressing table and chair, its mirror large and slightly wavy with age, stood alongside the bed near its foot, opposite a pair of upholstered chairs that flanked the mantel. A rather ponderous mahogany tallboy fitted with ornate, brass drawer pulls stood against the wall immediately opposite the bed. Candles in antique holders and wall sconces lent the room a soft, warm glow.

A fire had been laid in the hearth despite the fact that it had been a relatively warm summer evening. Now, at nearly three in the morning, the air rustling the sheer, gauzy white curtains was cool, almost chilly.

Comfortable at last in her favourite t-shirt—a bit worse for wear after shrinking in the wash—and a pair of baggy pyjama bottoms, her makeup off and her face scrubbed clean, Hermione sat at the dressing table, gazing at her reflection thoughtfully as she brushed her hair. Malfoy was _still_ in the loo, a fact that amazed her, considering he’d been in there for more than half an hour. Merlin, what could he be doing all this time? On second thought, she didn’t want to know.

Catching sight of the large bed in the mirror, she frowned briefly. Gods, this was going to be horribly awkward. Well, he would simply have to make do with one of the armchairs, that was all. She wasn’t about to share the bed. If Malfoy were any sort of gentleman—and that assumption was something of a stretch, she realised—he would offer her the bed in any case.

It had been a long and very tedious evening.

There had been a blur of people to sort out, and what made it more difficult was that they all seemed cast from the same mould. Like Crispin Harker, the men were ever so dapper: expensively dressed, deeply tanned, their teeth almost blindingly white, their hair in varying stages of exit from their heads. One man—Cygnus Fletcher, was it?—had actually taken the bull by the horns and shaved his entire head. Together with the tiny earring he sported and his pointy, little goatee, he had made baldness a fashion statement. Well, he was a playwright, Hermione remembered. He could carry off the bohemian look. His wife was an actress. Cloelia Shaw. Pretty, and a bit boho as well, unlike the rest of the women.

Nearly all them were cut from very much the same cloth. Or lack thereof, more accurately. Hermione couldn’t recall when she’d seen frocks that were less _there_. Plunging necklines vied with slits that travelled high up the leg, not to mention completely exposed backs, the material of the dress dipping so low that the top of the wearer’s bum threatened to make an appearance. Hermione wondered if one could even wear knickers under a frock like that. She would be willing to bet that most of the women hadn’t worn a stitch of underwear.

Perfectly coiffed hair and glamorous makeup, costly baubles and trinkets that shone and glittered against gloriously golden, tanned skin… and bodies that looked perfectly sculpted and toned, despite the fact that, as far as Hermione could tell, the majority of the women at the party tonight had been in their forties and fifties. (This was, Hermione decided ruefully, both hopeful and depressing at the same time.) There had only been two apart from herself who had been younger: one, Camilla Ward, a model, was in her late twenties or early thirties. She had come to the party very much the trophy of a man who, Hermione deduced, was connected to Crispin Harker through some sort of business dealings. His name had been… what was it? Septimus Fox. Yes. She remembered hearing from somebody or other that he had been a friend of Harker’s at school, both of them Hufflepuffs.

There had been other old schoolmates in attendance as well.

Adrian and Cassiopeia Parker-Douglas, for starters. Both of them were from very old pure-blood families, she’d learned, married many years and apparently happily so. Like Crispin Harker, they had so much inherited wealth between them that neither had ever had to work. Their only job was to play the role of bored socialite, something both had achieved to perfection.

Next, there was Graham Tyler, though Hermione supposed that technically, he really didn’t count, as it was his older brother Martin who had been at school with Harker. Graham, a healer at St Mungo’s, had brought his significant other with him, a colleague specialising in corrective and youth-enhancing body transformations. She’d had an unusual name… Fabiana, that was it. Fabiana Wells.

Then there was Charles Fitzhugh, the businessman. The married businessman who was cheating on his wife with a divorcée called Sabine (Hermione couldn’t quite recall her surname); unbeknownst to him, she was two-timing him with a much younger man, Alastair Morecombe—who, Malfoy had informed her with a quiet, little snicker, turned out to be one of Crispin Harker’s personal assistants. Apparently, Hermione concluded, Harker had a somewhat sadistic streak and took pleasure in watching soap operas play themselves out on a stage he controlled: he had invited his old friend Fitzhugh, his assistant Morecombe, _and_ their shared lover, and had sat back to watch the potential fireworks.

Harker’s other personal assistant was in attendance as well. Her name was Philippa Llewellyn. Now here was somebody Hermione felt nothing but contempt for. Or nearly nothing. There was a bit of pity in the mix as well, but only just. Because this woman, single and still young, only in her thirties, was having an affair with her much older boss. Worse still, she’d gone and fallen in love with Harker. However, the general consensus seemed to be that far from being in love with her, he was merely using her, in a long-running affair from which he was too lazy and comfortable to bother extricating himself. Evidently, this was obvious to everybody except Philippa, who still clung on rather pathetically.

Said very public affair—never mind his marriage—did not, it would seem, keep Crispin Harker’s eye from wandering even further afield.

Hermione had discovered this firsthand, along with the fact that her host apparently had the reach, speed, dexterity, and persistence of an arachnid closing in on its prey. He had waylaid her in a corner of the patio when Draco had gone to refresh their drinks at the bar.

“I do hope you are enjoying yourself, Miss Granger,” he had said, his voice silky and low. “Is there anything I might do to make you more… comfortable?” There was a flash of white teeth in the semi-darkness. “No? Well, then…”

He’d moved a bit closer, so that Hermione could smell the costly cologne he had used rather too liberally. Wrinkling her nose involuntarily, she’d taken a small step back, bumping up against the brickwork behind her.

“Perhaps we might discuss the case for a moment. Ordinarily I make it a rule never to mix business with pleasure…” Here, his eyes had glinted dangerously as they’d raked over Hermione, who suddenly felt rather naked in the light of his frank gaze. “But you inspire trust, and what better circumstance to unburden myself than when I am relaxed and enjoying the company of a beautiful, intelligent woman who just happens to be my solicitor?”

Taking a sip of his drink, he had sighed. “My marriage was a mistake. I can’t say I wasn’t warned, of course. Various members of my family were quite vocal in their opposition. If only I had listened. Sadly, everything they said about Gisela has turned out to be true.”

He’d stretched out one arm, bracing his hand against the brick wall mere inches above Hermione’s left shoulder. The move had brought him closer still.

“I see…” Quickly ducking beneath his arm and repositioning herself out of reach once again, Hermione had plastered an expression of earnest curiosity on her face, her eyes flitting over the expanse of the patio. Draco had been nowhere in sight. “What did they say?”

“Ah, you see, these are the confessions of a foolish old man,” he’d replied, and while his words were innocuous enough, his smile had become predatory. “They said, quite rightly as it turned out, that she was a gold digger. That she would spend every Galleon I had, and then some. That she cared far more for my wealth and position than for me. Come,” he’d beckoned, helping himself to her arm and firmly winding it through his own. “Let’s walk, shall we? The gardens are so lovely in the evening. Your fiancé won’t mind, I’m sure.”

Without waiting for her reply, he had set off, Hermione in tow. As they’d moved off the patio and headed in the direction of the formal gardens, Hermione had glanced back once again, searching for Draco. At last she’d spotted him, talking to a striking woman easily old enough to be his mother. It was Fabiana Wells, and judging by her rapt expression, she’d been utterly fascinated by something he was saying.

The formal gardens, a labyrinth of clipped hedges and plantings of many kinds, had a heady perfume that rose up like a wall as one entered its paths. Harker had turned them in the direction of the roses, one entire section of the gardens devoted to a host of lushly colourful and fragrant varieties.

Harker had sighed once again, rather theatrically. “Gisela always loved the rose garden. It’s where I proposed to her, you know.” In the half-light, he’d darted a quick glance at Hermione to gauge her reaction to his words. Noting her sufficiently sympathetic expression, he had continued.

“And now… now she wants to hang me out to dry. Impugn my character and smear my good name with accusations of all sorts.”

 _Which apparently are true, you dirty old man._ Hermione had raised an eyebrow, but she’d said nothing. She’d caught the stricken look on Philippa Llewellyn’s face as Harker had steered Hermione in the direction of the gardens. No doubt he had spent a fair bit of time with Philippa there as well. It must have been particularly galling and hurtful for her, watching helplessly as he’d disappeared within its walls of foliage with another woman. Hermione had felt a pang, realising this, even as she had reminded herself that she wasn’t there by choice but only doing her job.

By then, they’d stopped beside a particularly luxuriant bush of deep, wine-red blossoms exuding an intense perfume.

“The Gallica. Very old class of rose, you know,” Harker had said conversationally, pulling a flower forward just enough that Hermione could sniff at it. “They’ve been growing here for centuries, ever since the house was built. This particular one’s called ‘Charles de Mills.’ It only flowers once every summer. Allow me to give you one. It would look wonderful in your hair.”

A quick incantation under his breath, and the blossom had come away cleanly, _sans_ thorns. Harker had moved closer, carefully threading it into Hermione’s hair.

“Mmm. Beautiful.” His voice had been a seductive purr as he’d leaned forward to sniff the flower, lingering to breathe in the perfume of Hermione’s hair and skin. His mouth was perilously close to her neck. “Now, then…” he’d murmured silkily, a spider making ready to consume a hapless fly. “What was I saying?”

Awkwardly, Hermione had moved back a step, directly into the path of some nasty thorns. “Ow… um… you were talking about your wife smearing your good name.”

“Ah yes,” Harker had replied. “Her accusations, while not entirely unfounded, I grant you, are as nothing compared to her own indiscretions, of which I have tangible proof. In any case, whatever I may have done is entirely understandable, in the circumstances.” He turned to her with a stricken expression. “Believe me, I was driven to it. She denied me. A man has needs, Miss Granger. _Powerful_ needs. And I am no exception. Quite the contrary, in fact.”

Harker had locked eyes with Hermione, his gaze intense and unwavering. Even at sixty-three, he had a powerful magnetism, and his ability to manipulate it had not waned with the passing years. With every word, every look, every move he made, his seduction of Hermione was systematic, blatant and unabashed.

Hermione had cleared her throat, looking away just long enough to break the power of his gaze. _Focus. Get him talking again._

“You mentioned that you have some sort of proof,” she’d begun. “Can you tell me about that?”

Harker had given her a lethal smile. “Tapes. Photographs as well. All of it recorded over the last several years, in our homes here in England and in the house in Italy as well. Unbeknownst to my wife, I installed a security system some time back, which involved discreetly placed cameras throughout our homes. Of course, a good deal of what gets recorded is inconsequential and deleted immediately. One day, I was reviewing the footage from the night before —routine stuff, or so I believed—when I had the shock of my life.”

He’d paused for dramatic effect. Hermione had given the requisite nod.

“My wife and the gardener, shagging like rabbits, and in our bed, too. That was the fatal blow to our marriage, the beginning of the end. Since then, she’s been recorded having it off with any number of men, some of them quite well known, and not only in our world. Her latest is a Muggle, somebody very high up in government. House of Lords, I am told, though I have never paid much attention to the workings of Muggle government, so I am not certain of the reference.”

Hermione had understood it, though, only too well. _The House of Lords._ Gods, Middleton hadn’t been joking, had he. This case was quite serious indeed-- highly inflammatory and, for the politician and any other prominent people involved, potentially ruinous. What could happen if even a whiff of this scandal came out didn’t bear thinking about. The situation had to be dealt with quickly and with the utmost discretion.

“So, Miss Granger—may I call you Hermione? Such a lovely name—there you have it, my sad story.” Harker had shrugged lightly. “All I want now is to end this charade of a marriage and get on with my life. Can you help me do that, I wonder?” His smile had been far from innocent.

The conversation had ended there, because at that moment, several rather tipsy guests had happened upon them while making their own way through the gardens. Relieved, Hermione had made her escape, leaving Harker to his friends.

She gave her hair one last, half-hearted stroke with the brush and rested her chin in her palm, her brows drawn in a pensive frown. The evening had not only been long and tedious, it had also proven instructive, albeit in a rather distasteful way. Instructive and revealing as well. She wondered what, if anything, Malfoy had learned over the course of the evening.

The door to the en-suite opened at last, and Draco sauntered into the bedroom, wearing only a towel slung low on his narrow hips. His hair had been towel-dried rather hurriedly, it appeared, and stuck out in damp spikes here and there. Beads of water still clung to his skin, making it glisten in the candlelight.

He plopped down into one of the armchairs, his long legs splayed out in front of him and his eyes drifting shut. “Much better,” he sighed contentedly.

“Ahem.”

His eyes opened into narrow slits at the sound, and he gave Hermione a lazy grin. “Oh, it’s you. Forgot you were here.” He regarded her for a moment, his eyes fully open now, and then raised an amused eyebrow. “Cute outfit, Granger. Do you always wear such sexy things to bed?”

She felt her cheeks growing hot. Resolutely, she ignored the traitorous blush along with his impertinent question and his near-nakedness, tucking her legs up beneath her and hugging a small, satin pillow to her chest, giving him what she hoped was a nonchalant smile. “How was your night? Find out anything interesting?”

“Not nearly as much as you must have done, I reckon, from the looks of things,” Draco observed, smirking. “Your virtue still intact, then?”

“Not funny, Malfoy! He was like… like… I don’t know, like an _octopus!_ He was all hands! Ugh! And you left me alone with him! Where the hell were you anyway?” The recollection of her little tête-à-tête with Crispin Harker reminded her that her “fiancé” had essentially abandoned her, leaving her to fend for herself.

“Might I remind you,” Draco replied calmly, “that the whole point of our fake engagement is to set Harker up so that he’ll spill? I know the guy’s a perv, believe me. But me hovering round you all night wouldn’t exactly have been conducive to any meaningful admissions.”

Hermione nodded. Point taken, even if a bit grudgingly. “Okay…” she admitted. “So… what about you, then? I saw you talking to that woman, what’s her name?”

“Oh, right… Fabiana.” Draco smiled complacently at the recollection. “She was quite nice, yeah,” he mused. “They all were. Talkative too. I got the sense that they don’t think too highly of Harker’s wife. Universal opinion is, she’s a slag.”

“If Harker is to be believed, that sounds like a pretty accurate assessment.” Hermione nodded, resting her chin on her knees. “But of course, that doesn’t minimise his own adultery. From what I could gather, and even by his own admission, he hasn’t exactly been celibate since he and his wife separated.”

“And not before, either, I bet,” Draco snorted. “What did he tell you, anyway?”

“Well,” Hermione began, “you’re right, actually-- he did make reference to his affairs, but he blamed his wife for them.”

“The old ‘it wasn’t my fault, I’ve got needs’ bit, right? Meaning he wasn’t getting any from her. So he got it somewhere else.”

“Yup,” Hermione agreed. “Though who’s to say he hadn’t slept around even before that? I’d say he’s a slag too.” She giggled suddenly. “Wait, can that word apply to a man?”

Draco grinned, lounging well back into the nest of cushions lining the armchair and raking a hand through his hair, now nearly dry. So Granger actually had a sense of humour after all. Would wonders never cease?

“Technically? No,” he laughed. “But I’ll allow it for lack of a better equivalent, Ms. Granger.”

“Thank you, m’lud,” Hermione replied, inclining her head, and then she laughed too.

This moment of comfortable camaraderie hung between them briefly, and then, like the fragile bubble it was, it disappeared, and a slightly awkward silence took its place.

They sat there that way for a minute or so, and then Hermione clapped her hand to her forehead. “Merlin! I nearly forgot the most important thing of all! Malfoy, listen—he’s got _tapes._ That evidence he alluded to back when we first took the case? This is it!”

“Tapes? What are you on about?” Draco sat up a bit straighter, studying Hermione intently. “How—”

Hermione hopped off her chair and perched on the arm of the upholstered chair next to Draco’s.

“Security system, so he says. In every one of their houses, both here and abroad. Cameras everywhere. Supposedly, he’s caught his wife and countless lovers on film.”

“ _In flagrante delicto_ , eh? Hah. Bet you anything the sick fuck watched every second of it wanking his brains out.” One hand holding the towel closed, Draco rose, turning back towards the en-suite, and then paused. “We’ll need to have a look at those tapes, you know,” he reflected.

Hermione nodded, rolling her eyes. It wasn’t a prospect she relished.

Halfway to the loo, Draco turned around again. Something else had occurred to him.

“Did Harker say if this security system of his is still operational?”

She nodded. “Not in so many words, but I think it is. Though he said he erases nearly everything.”

“Did he. Hmm...” With this somewhat cryptic pronouncement, Draco disappeared into the loo.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Hermione started.

 _Who on earth can this be at_ … she glanced quickly at the clock on the mantel… _half past three in the morning?_ And then a terrible thought occurred to her. Not Harker, surely?

She pulled the heavy oak door open, revealing a diminutive house-elf holding a tray, upon which were a pair of very tall, slender glasses filled with a pale, key lime-green liquid topped by a layer of creamy foam and garnished with a cherry.

“Begging your pardon, Miss,” the house-elf said, dropping a small curtsey. “Master is instructing Blinkers to offer you this nightcap with his compliments.” Dropping her head, she thrust the tray towards Hermione and waited.

Well, this was unexpected, but then, nothing Crispin Harker did was conventional or ordinary by Hermione’s standards. A nightcap at close to four in the morning following a party that had only just ended an hour before suddenly didn’t seem so very surprising.

“Thank you, Blinkers,” she smiled, and took the two glasses, nudging the door shut with her foot as she turned back towards the dressing table. Carefully, she set them down, making sure that they wouldn’t leave a wet ring on the priceless antique.

Draco poked his head out of the en-suite door. “Who was that?”

“House-elf,” Hermione replied absently, swirling the green liquid around in the glass and watching as it left a trail of foam in its wake around the rim.

Draco emerged from the en-suite, this time clad in a pair of loose-fitting pyjama trousers made of very thin cotton. They sat even lower on his hips than the towel had, his pelvic bones forming a perfect “V” that inevitably drew the eye down to what remained tantalisingly hidden below. Above the “V,” Hermione couldn’t help noticing, his abdominal muscles were taut and beautifully toned, as were his chest and arms. Licking her lips unconsciously, she forced her gaze away, a faint flush creeping up her neck and pinking her cheeks.

So. Draco slanted an appraising look at Hermione from the corner of an eye. Two surprising and newsworthy revelations about his partner in the same night, it would seem. Not only did she have a sense of humour, but apparently—contradicting everything Draco had always believed of her—she was not immune to the attractions of the opposite sex after all, even if he were the man in question. The fact that he _was_ the one affecting her this way was particularly intriguing, considering that the only really strong reactions he’d ever managed to elicit previously were anger, impatience, irritation, and contempt. Not that he’d cared, of course, it was just Granger after all. Still…

Draco smiled to himself. Mmm, she was definitely blushing. Thinking about it, his smile grew wicked. What a very interesting situation. Diverting too. Shame not to capitalise on it.

“A little something to cap off the evening, eh?” He moved closer to the dressing table, where Hermione stood, her back to him, until he was just behind her, so close that his body was nearly touching hers through the flimsy cotton of their pyjama trousers. “What a very good idea,” he murmured into her hair. “I could definitely do with something wet and sweet.”

Reaching around her, he carefully took one of the glasses, placing the other in her hand.

“A toast,” he said, his voice dropping lower and becoming sultry. “To our brilliant teamwork. What do you say?”

A toast? What the hell was Malfoy playing at? And then suddenly, it became clear. He was mocking her, ridiculing her because damn it, he’d caught that blush and one way or another, he wasn’t about to let her forget it.

“Thanks anyway,” she said stiffly, “but I don’t think so. I’m not thirsty.” She set her glass down and made to move away, but Draco stretched an arm out on either side of her, grasping the edge of the dressing table and boxing her in. This brought him closer still. Suddenly, her thin t-shirt and pyjama bottoms seemed awfully warm.

“Oh come on, Granger.” His voice, smooth as cream, persisted in her ear. “It’ll be fun. All these years, we’ve never had a drink together.”

She turned her head, opening her mouth to take exception, but he anticipated what she would say, nipping in quickly to cut her off. “The party doesn’t count. I mean just you and me. Friends. We could be, you know. We don’t _have_ to be at each other’s throats, do we?” His voice was very soft now. “It could be so much nicer.”

Oh, it could, could it? Well. Two could do this dance. If playing her was what Malfoy was attempting, for whatever twisted, juvenile reasons he might have, he would find he’d met his match. The player was about to become the very surprised play-ee. She turned to face him, very nearly nose to nose. Their eyes met.

“All right, yes. Let’s have that toast.” She smiled demurely, looking up at him through her lashes as she raised her glass. “To… working together closely. _Very_ closely. Cheers!”

And with that, she tossed back the entire drink in one go. Draco watched, a surprised and frankly appreciative grin on his face, and then gave a discreet couple of taps to his upper lip.

“You’ve got a bit of… yeah, that’s it… just there…” he chuckled, settling himself in one of the armchairs.

At that, Hermione’s tongue darted out, discovering a foamy, white moustache draping her upper lip.

“Oh!” she giggled, and then swayed a little. “Gosh!” Groping wildly for the chair behind her, she found it and sat down heavily, another giggle escaping her. And then, slowly and systematically, she licked off every drop clinging to her lips, her eyes never leaving Draco’s.

There was something mesmerising about the sight of that little, pink tongue lapping at the cream. Draco couldn’t tear his eyes away. He sat there, transfixed, absently taking long pulls from his own drink until it, too, was gone. Then he watched as Hermione plucked the ruby-red maraschino cherry from the bottom of the glass and popped it into her mouth, whereupon she expelled a sigh of pleasure, chewing slowly until at last, she swallowed it all. The little pink tongue reappeared, then, and she licked her lips once more, satisfied.

“Warm in here, isn’t it?” she murmured. “Silly, having a fire now… It’s summer… Don’t need a fire in the summer, everybody knows that… Phew, it’s _so hot_ … Don’t you think it’s hot, Malfoy?”

Indeed he did. So much so, in fact, that he’d seriously considered stripping off completely, and only the merest shred of natural reserve, which he didn’t have in huge supply to begin with, was holding him back.

Curious… Aside from feeling intensely warm suddenly, there was something else, the sensation of being on fire in a whole other way. Draco darted a glance at Hermione, wondering if she, too, were feeling this… this… oh, sod it all! The truth was that suddenly, at this moment, he was hornier than he’d ever been in his entire life, and the object of his furious and all-consuming desire was sitting loose-limbed like a rag doll in the chair opposite him, a beatific smile on her recently moustached face. Such a pretty face. How had he not seen that before?

And under that adorably tight little t-shirt… gods, how had he never noticed those incredible tits before? Beneath the thin material, her breasts were clearly defined. And Merlin, they were _lovely_ : well shaped and a very nice size, with erect little nipples that were begging for his attentions. Dazed, he sat back in the chair, his hand sliding unabashedly beneath the tented material of his pyjama trousers to clutch at his raging erection.

Hermione watched the journey of that hand with utter fascination. The male of the species had always been something of a mystery to her. Her experiences with them, those of an intimate nature at least, had been somewhat limited. Not that she wasn’t interested, of course, but work had always been her first priority, and the intense drive and ambition that propelled her had generally proven off-putting to men who asked her out. And over the years, there hadn’t been many of those. Gradually, her entire world had telescoped down to the office, her flat, and the path between the two. Work became everything, and when she wasn’t actually doing it, she was ruminating about it—either a case, or some aspect or other of working with Malfoy. If she’d stopped to think about it, she would have been astounded to realise that he consumed her thoughts nearly as much as their caseload did.

Now, it was that hand and what it was busy doing that had her riveted. Not only that, but the sight of it was producing a powerful desire to touch herself. Her hands crept up to her chest, and she began flicking and rubbing her nipples through the material of the t-shirt. It wasn’t enough. No, she must touch herself _there_ as well, or she would surely incinerate on the spot! One hand remained on a breast, while the other crept beneath the waistband of her pyjama bottoms and down between her thighs, where she found herself almost unbearably aroused, pungent and slick and pulsating with need.

Each watched the other, unable to look away, their hands moving faster and faster. The room was silent except for their quickening breaths, punctuated by occasional sighs, moans, or a fervently muttered oath.

And then it all became too much.

Suddenly, Draco erupted from his chair, grabbing Hermione by the arm and dragging her into the en-suite’s luxurious bathtub, where he yanked on the taps. A stream of delightfully cooling water rained down from the showerhead and spurted in pulsating jets from all sides of the tiled walls.

For a few seconds, they stood under the cascading spray, their pyjamas utterly soaked and clinging like a second skin. There was relief, but it wasn’t enough.

“Take them off!” he growled. “Your clothes! Take them _off! NOW!_ ”

He needn’t have asked. Hermione was way ahead of him. In one fluid, desperate gesture, she peeled her t-shirt over her head and wriggled out of her pyjama bottoms, kicking them to the side of the tub. And then she yanked his down to his ankles, threw her arms around his neck, and pulled his face to hers for a kiss.

And what a kiss.

It was sloppy. It was wet. It was bungling and inexpert. Teeth collided as lips and tongues smashed into each other. There would surely be bruising in the morning. But none of that mattered. None of it was even noticed. Because this was the most fantastically incendiary kiss either of them had ever had or could ever hope to have, driven by devouring need and desire.

They couldn’t get enough. It was like drowning, like happily dying a thousand deaths, each one more intense than the last. Each kiss, each caress, fuelled the need for more, and then still more. Biting, sucking, teasing each other’s tender flesh with lips and tongues and fingers, they frantically pressed themselves together, clinging to each other with the urgent imperative to be one flesh. Driving savagely into her, he took her again and again, and still, it wasn’t enough.

Drenched and dripping, they stumbled to the bed, heedless of their nakedness and the sodden path they were leaving on the rug, and collapsed, temporarily sated. Beneath the duvet, limbs entangled, their sleep was dreamless and deep. As night gave way to the first wan light of dawn, his need building again, he woke her with a kiss and then a sharp bite to the shoulder; later still, she roused him, slipping her fingers through his as he drowsed and pressing butterfly kisses on his bare back and shoulder until he turned to her once again.

*

The deep silence that still cloaked the three-hundred-year-old house at eleven that morning was distinct, almost tangible. By noon, a handful of Harker’s guests had begun to stir, but most remained in the soothing quiet and darkness of their bedrooms and would continue to do so for most of the day. Wretchedly hung over, many of them were too incapacitated even to reach for the vials of medicinal potion their host had thoughtfully left on every bedside table for just such an eventuality.

In the dimly lit, rosewood-panelled bedroom, the occupants of the four-poster were mercifully still unconscious. Looking at them, one would think they’d been attacked while they slept. Long, jagged scratches, teeth marks, and rosy love bites randomly dotted their naked bodies like a relief map, and their limbs were tangled together in the chaos of bedding that had been kicked, pulled, pushed, rolled on, and generally put through the wringer of strenuous, sustained, feverish lovemaking.

At just after one in the afternoon, Draco cracked open an eye and gazed blearily at the clock on the mantel. Its face stubbornly refused to stay in focus, however, and he gave up the effort as a bad job.

Moving, when he attempted that, turned out to be a surprisingly painful experience.

“What the fuck…!” he muttered, confused. Every muscle in his body hurt, it seemed. Even the hair on his head hurt. What the bloody hell had happened to him overnight?

And then he turned his head and noticed he was not alone in bed.

Noticed, in fact, that his bent knees bracketed those of the woman who slept, spoon-fashion, behind him. Curled up in a foetal ball, her legs fitting neatly like puzzle pieces into the space behind his, the side of her head was pressed against his back and she had commandeered his arm; it was stretched awkwardly behind him, and she was holding onto his hand for dear life. Her fingertips, warm and soft, moved lightly over his skin as she slept. Craning his neck, he peered over his shoulder at her face in the half-light. Her mouth was slightly open, her breathing soft and even. He could see her eyes moving beneath fluttering lids. She was dreaming—completely relaxed, unguarded, and vulnerable.

 _Gods._ He was in bed with _Hermione Granger_.

Stark naked.

He blinked once, twice. It took all of a minute for his head to clear sufficiently that certain recollections of the previous night—or really, very early that morning, to be precise-- began to struggle through the murk to the surface.

The party had been long, he remembered, with a lot of rich food and heavy drinking, and by the time they’d returned to their room, he’d been knackered. A refreshing shower had done wonders. He’d just slipped into a pair of pyjama trousers when a house-elf had appeared at the door with drinks, compliments of their host. He’d felt fine at that point—tired and perhaps still slightly fuzzy-headed, but overall, quite well. In fact, just then, he’d been rather enjoying teasing Granger. That little blush of hers had excited him, he had to admit. She was really rather fetching when she was embarrassed and pretending to be above it all. He’d been pushing her in a little contest of brinksmanship, seeing just how far he could go, and she’d surprised and delighted him by giving it right back and then upping the ante.

That’s where things became really fuzzy in his mind. What emerged now, as he tried to piece it all together, was a series of images all merging in a frantic blur, like a slide show in hyper-drive, fuelled by sudden and extraordinarily intense sexual desire and the overpowering compulsion to relieve it.

With Granger.

He examined what he could see of his body in disbelief. Merlin, what _hadn’t_ they done to and with each other? For hours on end, evidently, and with wild abandon.

As satisfying as his sex life generally was, he’d never experienced anything like _that_ before. The force of what had transpired between him and Granger was almost terrifying.

Thinking about it now in the sobering light of day, with a mind that was completely clear, at last, despite a nagging headache, Draco Malfoy knew two things for certain:

One, that they had been drugged.

And two, that _no_ aphrodisiac, no matter how potent, could possibly create the sort of deeply primal connection they had both felt so powerfully. Such a potion only worked _that_ way, like a spectacular, soul-stirring force of nature, when there was already something there for it to draw upon. Latent, perhaps, ignored or denied, but there.

That second realisation was far more disturbing than the first.

As he lay there deep in thought, he felt Hermione stir beside him. Her soft hair tickled his back as she raised her head, and then he heard a sharp intake of breath. He didn’t have to turn around to know that at that moment, her eyes had grown impossibly large and her mouth had fallen open in a perfect O.

“Yes, Granger. We’re in bed together. And we’re naked. Just breathe,” he told her wryly.

There was a muttered imprecation then--he couldn’t help smiling at that-- followed by a groan of very real pain, likely a lot worse than his. Draco had the urge, suddenly, to apologise, but doing so was awkward in the circumstances, and he let the moment pass.

“Don’t. Turn. Around.” Her voice was tense, its pitch slightly higher than normal. He could feel her inching carefully away from him, the air around him growing a bit cooler in her absence, and then the mattress dipped a bit and sprang back again. She was muttering to herself as she scuttled slowly and painfully, crab-like, about the room, attempting to cover herself with a pair of small throw pillows she’d snatched up while searching in vain for her t-shirt and pyjama bottoms.

“You won’t find them here, you know,” Draco drawled, trying and failing to stifle a grin. As weird as all this was, suddenly it seemed pretty damned funny too, all things considered.

“Oh, and why is that?” Hermione halted at the foot of the bed, got the full frontal view of him stretched out on the duvet, remembered suddenly that she was very nearly as exposed as he, and dropped into a mortified crouch below Draco’s line of sight. “Malfoy, cover yourself!” came her muffled hiss from somewhere near the floor. “Where are they, then?”

“I believe you’ll find them in the bath. Sopping wet,” he added, his mouth twitching as he reached to pull a corner of the duvet over his mid-section. “We, uh… took a shower. Together. Very good for the environment, you know. Saves water.”

“Ha ha.” And then, in a pained whisper, she faltered, “Did we _really?_ ”

“’Fraid so. You were quite keen, actually.”

“I was?”

“Mmm. Never saw a woman get naked so fast. And then get me naked.”

“Oh _bugger_ … I didn’t! Did I?”

“Yep. Though it was me dragging you into the bath in the first place.”

Small, embarrassed giggle. “But why?”

“You really don’t remember?”

Hermione shook her head. A flush was creeping up her neck and slowly suffusing her cheeks. “Tell me.” There was a note of dread in her voice now.

“It was really hot in here, remember that?”

She frowned for a moment, thinking back, and then nodded.

“We’d both been… hmm, how to put this delicately… relieving an itch, so to speak. And watching each other do it.” He cocked an eyebrow and gave her a wolfish grin. “Get it?”

“No, I d-” And then suddenly, the picture became crystal clear. She clapped her hands to her cheeks, which were quite rosy by now. “ _OH!_ But… but I never do that… I mean…”

“Right,” Draco nodded gravely, and then the corners of his mouth rose in a sly grin. “Looked to me like you were an old hand at it. Quite a turn-on, y’know. I couldn’t look away. Finally… well… that was it. Into the shower. And then…” He gave the bed a couple of pats. “Like I said, you were quite keen. More than keen. We must have been at it all night, if this”—he opened his arms and gestured at the evidence all over his body—“is any indication. Have a look at yourself, Granger. Reckon we both did some serious damage.”

If Hermione had appeared shocked before, now she was truly dumbstruck and horrified. Her mouth fell open and stayed that way as first she gazed at Draco and then down at herself. The evidence was surely there—everywhere, in fact. And Merlin, she _hurt_. All over, but especially between her legs, where it felt as if she’d been rammed repeatedly by the horn of a rhinoceros. Edging slowly and carefully towards the dressing table, she plucked up the first thing she could find, a white, button-down shirt of Malfoy’s from the night before, and slipped it on. Then she sank down on the edge of the bed and looked at him, feeling shy all of a sudden.

“Wow…” she murmured, and fell silent for a moment. “But… how…?”

Draco sighed, falling back on the mountain of pillows and lacing his fingers together behind his head. “Think, Granger. What happened just before we started feeling so warm?”

Hermione knitted her brows together, unconsciously tapping a finger against her lips. Abruptly, her eyes widened and she turned to Draco, sucking in a sharp breath.

“Those drinks! Of course!”

“Mmm. We got totally shitfaced, and then some.”

“And then some? What do you mean?”

“Look. It’s obvious, isn’t it. Harker spiked our drinks. His intention wasn’t to knock us out, though…” He paused and scrutinised her carefully. Had she got the inference?

“Malfoy… are you saying that he deliberately gave us an… an _aphrodisiac_? So we would--”

“Have sex. Yeah. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“But _why?_ ” Hermione looked perplexed.

“I’ve a hunch about that. Come here.” He patted the bed. When she hesitated, he rolled his eyes impatiently. “Fuck’s sake, Granger, there’s nothing I haven’t already seen, and besides, you’re wearing my shirt. Just come here,” he repeated.

She complied, climbing in a gingerly fashion over the duvet’s hillocks and valleys until she’d reached Draco’s side.

“Right, now just… yeah… sit here, in front of me, that’s it.” Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her close so that her back pressed against his chest. “Okay, now look up, just… _there_ … See that?” Tipping her chin up with his index finger, he pointed to a pinprick-sized amber light that was flickering from one of the brass drawer pulls at the top of the tallboy opposite the bed. The light was so tiny and the blinking so intermittent that it was nearly impossible to discern. Nevertheless, there it was.

Hermione stared for a moment, her eyes narrowed. “What…? Wait, is that a…”

“Camera? Reckon so. Part of that so-called ‘security system’ he told you about. I’d say it’s most definitely still operational. In fact,” he speculated, “I bet ours isn’t the only room where it’s still on, either.”

Hermione drew in a ragged breath. “You think Harker’s been _spying_ on everybody? On all his friends? On _us?_ Oh gods…” She shuddered, her hands creeping up to his arms, which were still threaded around her. She clutched them anxiously. “I feel sick. This is really _awful_.”

“Actually,” he replied, his voice deadly calm, “I’m betting it gets even worse. You’ll have to keep Harker distracted later so I can look round a bit, do a bit of digging. Can you do that? Sorry to ask, but it’s the only way.”

Hermione stiffened, pushing herself out of Draco’s arms and off the bed. She stood with her back to him, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. Finally, she replied. “It’s okay. Part of the job, yeah?”

It was, yes. And he knew that there really was no other alternative. First, he already had a fair idea of the sort of thing he might be looking for. Having grown up in a house with innumerable valuables—expensive antiques, his mother’s jewels, family heirlooms, and a trove of illicit objects—he knew a thing or two about security systems. His father had decided some time before that mere wards were insufficient and had opted to install certain experimental magical technologies as a backup. Second, for obvious reasons, Granger would prove a much more effective distraction for Harker than he ever could. And yet… there was something about the idea of throwing her to the wolves—to _this_ lecherous, old wolf—that gave him the creeps.

Right, then. Time to get this show on the road. No time for hesitation or regrets. Draco pulled the stopper on a small vial of hangover potion he’d discovered on the nightstand, and tossed a second one to Hermione.

“Cheers!” he muttered, and quaffed the contents in a single gulp.

*

“Hair of the dog.” Crispin Harker winked and held out a tumbler of something bright orange and rather pungent. “Good for what ails you when the standard potions fail. You look like you could use this. Old family recipe. I’ve always sworn by it.” Nodding, he held the glass closer to Hermione, inviting her to take it.

Cautiously, she accepted it, bringing it close for a sniff. The odour was even more powerful up close, and involuntarily, she wrinkled her nose.

“Be a good girl now,” Harker chuckled. “Bottoms up. You’ll feel ever so much better.”

Obediently, she raised the glass to her lips, pretending to take a sip, and as she did, she could feel his eyes wandering the length of her body, taking in every bit of exposed skin. One of his eyebrows rose a tad, and he smiled faintly as their eyes met.

 _Ugh! He’s actually checking for marks, wondering if the nightcap worked! As if we wouldn’t think to Heal ourselves! Well, let him wonder!_ She smiled too, her lips curling back on her teeth in an almost feral way. Claws out now. She might have to play the decoy, but she would not be a victim again.

“Tell me, Hermione,” Harker said conversationally, taking her arm now and walking her towards the French doors opening onto the patio. “Did you enjoy yourself last night? I do hope so.”

 _When_ last night was not being specified. He’d left that bit wide open to interpretation.

“Oh yes, thanks,” Hermione replied affably. They’d reached the patio, where a sumptuous late-lunch buffet had been laid out. “I had a wonderful time.”

_Evade, evade, evade._

“And…” Harker continued, taking a fully laden plate from one of the house-elves and handing to her. “Do you still have the rose I gave you? It looked so charming in your lovely hair…” Reaching up, he trailed his fingertips over her hair in a light caress and then let his hand drop to his side.

Resisting the urge to recoil, Hermione gave him a sweet smile. “I do, yes. It’s in some water in my room. Thank you again for that. I love it.”

By now, they had made their way to an umbrella-covered glass table, one of several on the patio, and sat down to eat. Several other guests had straggled in and were partaking as well. Harker nodded pleasantly in their direction and then gave her a sidelong glance, a corner of his mouth quirking in a sly smile. “Then perhaps I may count on your charming company again sometime? To enjoy the gardens as well as consult regarding my case. You would be most welcome. _Most_ welcome,” he repeated, laying a hand over hers as it rested in her lap.

Carefully lifting his hand away, she shrugged, the agreeable smile still on her face. “Perhaps,” she said lightly. “I’m certain we will have lots to discuss in the next several weeks.” _Lots indeed. You have no idea._

“So…” she continued, taking a bite of melon dressed with prosciutto. “Tell me about this security system of yours, Mr. Harker.”

“Crispin,” he interrupted, throwing her an intimate wink.

“ _Crispin_ ,” she amended. “As you know, the information it will provide might be critical to your case. Naturally, we’ll need to view the tapes in question, to determine whether any of them is admissible. In the meantime, I need to know more about it: how it operates and the extent of the material you’ve gathered.”

Harker took a sip from his drink, sighed pleasurably, and cleared his throat. “Simple, really. As I told you last night, there are small cameras in every room of this house as well as the London townhouse and the villa in Italy. They are set to record twenty-four hours a day. As I said, most of the footage is completely insignificant. Even so, I must review it periodically, to be certain there are no irregularities that might indicate a security breach. Naturally, whatever is of no consequence is immediately erased.”

He had stressed that point the night before as well, she remembered. And another thing: was it her imagination, or did he seem especially anxious that she believe him about this? It appeared as if he were deliberately schooling his features to look sincere. She nodded for him to continue. He smiled, clearly relieved.

“And of course, it goes without saying,” he went on, “that when I have company, as I do this weekend, the cameras are disabled. I wouldn’t dream of invading the privacy of my guests.”

“No, of course not,” Hermione agreed, nodding seriously. She leaned back, sipping her own drink. “How recent is the footage of your wife?”

Harker looked up from his plate, where he was in the midst of forking up a bite of lobster mousse covered in black Muscat cream. “It’s been some time since she was here. The most recent film I’ve got of her is from the house on the Riviera. Just last week, in fact. She was there with her current lover.” He gave her an evil grin. “Would you like to know his name? As a Muggleborn, you might be surprised.”

Hermione nodded, and he leaned forward, crooking a finger to beckon her nearer. She moved closer, and he slid her hair to one side, bringing his lips to her ear.

His whispered words had the desired effect. Hermione’s eyebrows shot up and her mouth fell open. It was far worse than she had imagined. Harker smiled smugly, folding his arms across his chest.

“Yes. Well…” she began, clearing her throat. This was a powder keg and he seemed almost eager to start the conflagration. As his solicitor, however, she had an obligation to make sure he understood the ramifications of the situation. “Trust me, if this got out, there would be _quite_ a scandal. It would necessitate a huge cover-up, both in the Muggle press and in ours. We must maintain absolute discretion.”

“Oh, yes, certainly. But such information can surely serve a purpose, don’t you agree? As a sort of lever, to gently nudge my sweet wife towards seeing reason.” His tone turned steely. “I have no intention of allowing her to destroy my good name and rob me blind in the process.”

Harker stabbed vehemently at the remains of a cheese and scallion puff, chewing with purpose. Apparently, Hermione had hit a nerve. She decided to try another tack.

“Your security system… how exactly does it work, anyway?” Her expression was earnest. In an inspired moment, she added, “Did you design it yourself, by any chance?”

Bingo.

Harker’s eyes lit up, and he edged his chair a bit closer, eager to share. “Astute question, my dear! Funny you should happen to ask that. In point of fact, I did. Always had an interest in such things, tinkered a bit over the years, but nothing ever amounted to much. Until I hit upon the idea for this system. It’s really quite ingenious, if I do say so myself.”

Bending his head towards hers, he dropped his voice and began to speak.

*

The mechanism itself was simple enough: an infinitesimal lens in a camera less than a sixteenth of an inch in diameter, adhering to the inside of the drawer and accessing the room through a minute hole in the brass drawer pull.

Now Draco lay stretched out on the bed, idly turning the tiny cube over in his hand and thinking.

The drawer had been locked, but it had been child’s play to counter that spell-- not a very complex one at all, surprisingly. Removing the tiny camera from the drawer had been simple enough as well. What Draco needed to work out now was how to get at the film and then view it. That meant breaking whatever spell kept the lens and its film sealed inside the camera. And then there were these questions: how extensive was this security system? Where were the films stored, and how far back did they actually go? Beyond that, there were other, more disturbing and distasteful possibilities he didn’t even like thinking about.

Almost lazily, he tossed the tiny camera into the air, snagging it neatly on its way down. All of those questions needed eventual answers. Just now, though, the daunting problem of cracking the camera was nagging relentlessly at him. It also became quite clear why breaking the locking spell on the drawer had been so simple. Harker knew that the real challenge would come later, in trying to get inside the camera itself. He obviously wasn’t worried.

As Draco fingered the camera, he suddenly noticed a certain unevenness in the surface on its underside. This called for a closer look. Pulling his wand out of his pocket, he murmured, “ _Lumen Candida!_ ” Instantly, an exceptionally bright, white light streamed from the tip of his wand. Training it on the tiny cube, he examined it closely.

I I O E

Four letters scratched or possibly burned into the surface of the cube. Not a word, but quite possibly an acronym for the Unsealing spell. But where to begin? The possibilities seemed endless.

Draco began racking his brain. Bugger it, there were so many incantations that began with the letter “I.” _Impervius._ No, that was only good for making something water-repellent. _Impedimenta._ Nope. Only applied to moving objects. Not a barrier in and of itself. _Imperturbable._ Not on. That sort of barrier only worked to prevent eavesdropping. No way could Harker have used it to seal the camera.

“O” was even more of a challenge. _Obscuro?_ That only applied to vision, though film was directly connected to sight, surely. He would keep that spell in mind. Perhaps there was a way it would figure in somehow.

“E” was completely impossible. Tired as he was, all he could come up with were incantations to Vanish, conjure a Patronum, put out a fire, or blow something up, none of which made the slightest sense.

Clearly, the Unsealing spell consisted of words that were far more idiosyncratic and arcane. He began ticking off everything he could remember of his studies in early spellcraft, mentally tossing out one incantation after another like cards in a crazed Tarot reading.

Some time later, he flopped back on the pillows in utter frustration. He’d just about fried his brain, trying to come up with a combination of viable ancient spells beginning with letters that would match those inscribed on the camera. He’d failed miserably. The camera remained stubbornly sealed.

Time for Plan B.

Which was, he decided, to slip into as many of the other guest bedrooms as possible and look for functioning cameras there. What he found had the potential to be very damaging, and it could well influence the way they would proceed with the case. In fact, if his suspicions proved correct, it could turn the case completely on its ear.

There were nine bedrooms in all, three of them on the first floor. The cameras would not all be quite as easy to spot as the one he’d already found, given that Harker would surely have changed their locations from room to room. Draco would have to be very careful, as some of the occupants were still shuttered inside, nursing their hangovers, while others were lounging outside on the patio or in one of the comfortable sitting-rooms, feeding their hangovers with a round of late-afternoon drinks.

He could not afford to cock this up. Too much was riding on what he might find, and on how discreetly he conducted himself in the aftermath. Except… how frustrating it would be, if he actually found working cameras but couldn’t view their contents.

The key was not allowing Harker the chance to alter the evidence in any way before it was officially Collected by the Ministry’s legal arm. And that meant not accidentally tipping their hands—well, _his_ hand. He hadn’t yet shared his larger suspicions with his partner.

Harker would expect to turn in only the incriminating tapes of his wife and her lovers. That was not at all what Draco Malfoy had in mind.

Feeling a bit like a cat burglar, he made his way stealthily along the corridor. It was quiet, only the occasional sound of a house-elf scurrying about a room in order to change the linens or lay a fresh fire in the hearth. Wishing fervently that he could Conjure an Invisibility Cloak on the spot, he moved silently, listening at key holes until he found a room that seemed empty.

Slowly, carefully, he turned the knob and pushed the door open a little way. The room was dim, the drapes drawn against the golden light of a late summer afternoon. Narrow shafts like bright arrows streamed in around the ponderous drapery blacking out most of each window.

Draco squinted, trying to adjust his vision, and peered in the direction of the bed. Empty, thank Merlin. Quietly, he moved into the centre of the room and, as his eyes adjusted to the partial light, he began scrutinising its contents.

Forty-five minutes later, he had been in and out of five rooms and had found four cameras hidden in a variety of rather creative locations, all of them winking discreetly. One had been in the door of a wardrobe, another embedded in an intricately carved section of the mantel, a third winking from the eye of a lady whose portrait graced the wall above a writing desk. The fourth and hardest to find had been virtually invisible in a corner of a mirror. Each camera had been cleverly designed to mimic its surroundings, chameleon-like, so that it was extraordinarily well camouflaged and nearly impossible to detect.

Sod that fifth one, though. Draco _knew_ it was there, but he hadn’t been able to locate it. And with three bedrooms occupied and thus off limits, there was just one more he could search. Not much time, either. He knew Hermione would make the appropriate excuses, but even she couldn’t cover for him for that long without arousing suspicion.

Thinking about Hermione, he wondered how she was faring. It had been well over an hour since they’d parted company and she’d gone off to play sacrificial lamb. Somehow, though, Draco had the sense that she wasn’t nearly as vulnerable as she’d been the night before. Finding out they’d been used had been oddly empowering for her, it seemed. Turning to leave their room, she’d had a steely glint in her eye.

No time to think about Granger now, though. He’d arrived at the last bedroom and it was now or never. The room was at the end of the corridor on the second floor, and it was the largest and grandest of all the bedrooms in the house.

It belonged to Crispin Harker himself.

*

The house seemed to be growing exponentially, the faster Hermione walked along its corridors, searching for Draco. She picked up her pace, moving at a near-jog. Harker might be in his cups for now (she’d felt no guilt whatsoever when slipping a couple of extra shots of vodka into the Bloody Mary she’d offered to make for him. A completely justified quid pro quo, in Hermione’s opinion. “My dad’s recipe,” she’d confided with a wink, handing him the generously sized drink. “Muggles like their drinks large.”), but his state of carefree near-oblivion wouldn’t last forever. And there was vital information she needed to get to Draco while there was still time.

She’d cautiously peered into several empty guest rooms, but no Malfoy. Upstairs then? Taking the stairs two at a time, she made her way down the wide, lengthy corridor, trying doors and poking her head into every unlocked room she found. Bugger. Still no luck.

There was one more room at the end of the hall. The door was slightly ajar. Hermione frowned, moving closer and peeking around the door frame. “Malfoy?” she breathed, and then she tried again, raising her voice slightly. “Malfoy? Are you in here?”

“Up here,” came the whispered reply. Impossibly, his voice seemed to be coming from the ceiling. Craning her neck, she looked wildly about, scanning the entire ceiling and seeing nothing.

“ _Where?_ ” she hissed. “I don’t see you!”

“Think small,” came the sardonic voice she knew so well, except it seemed to have been funnelled through the larynx of something very small indeed. Straddling what appeared to be an extraordinarily tiny box affixed to a corner of the vast mirror that covered the ceiling above an equally mammoth bed, Draco waved down at Hermione and grinned.

He was about the size of a very large beetle, two inches at most.

“Ssshh!!” He put a finger to his lips as she goggled at him, and then winked. “Shrinking Spell.” His voice sounded oddly high-pitched and tinny.

“So I see!” Hermione whispered. She clapped a hand over her mouth to stop a giggle. “What on earth are you doing up there anyway?”

“Trying to… disengage… this… camera…” he grunted, as he resumed his exertions, “from… this… bloody… mirror! No clue what spell Harker used here, but the magic’s a lot stronger than in the other rooms. Had to examine it up close.” He gave a slight laugh. “Reckon I’m getting desperate. I’ve tried just about everything!”

Not quite everything, it would seem. One last-ditch, recklessly optimistic incantation, followed by a strong oath and a good tug, and a minute later, both he and the camera came flying down from the ceiling, Draco transforming himself back on the way down so that he landed on his feet, normal size, none the worse for wear and with the tiny camera in hand.

“ _This_ one,” he told Hermione, waving the camera at her, “is going to be loaded, I bet. If we could just have a look _now_ , whilst…”

“But we can!” Hermione exclaimed excitedly. Draco shot her a fierce warning look, and she dropped her voice again. “Sorry! But see, that’s why I was looking for you! I got the spell out of Harker!”

Draco let out a low whistle. “Well done! How’d you manage it?”

Hermione grinned proudly. “Got him drunk. I _did!_ ” she insisted, at Draco’s look of unabashed amazement. “Turns out he designed the system himself, so he was practically begging to talk about it. Told me _everything!_ Anyway, look, here’s the spell, ready?”

“It’s all yours, baby.” Draco held out the camera and waited.

Pointing her wand at the tiny cube in his hand, she murmured, “ _Imperceptus. Impenetrabilis. Occultus,_ ” and finally, with a bit of a flourish, “ _Expositus!_ ”

I I O E. Of course.

All at once, a thin, vapour-like substance began to leak out of the camera, rising, column-like, into the air until it formed what appeared to be a free-floating screen about two feet square, suspended in front of them. On the screen, there were two people in a frozen tableau: Crispin Harker and Philippa Llewellyn, reclining on the bed and scantily clad.

It was easy to work out what was needed next. Pointing his own wand at the floating screen, Draco uttered a single word: “ _Anima!_ ”

Instantly, the figures on the screen began to move about, laughing and teasing provocatively, sipping from glasses of what appeared to be champagne, and fondling each other as articles of clothing were dispensed with. It was like watching a train wreck. Both he and Hermione knew what was coming and yet, neither could look away.

This was all getting just a bit too weird, even for him. He hadn’t actually given it any thought, not really, but of course, the experience would be no different when they viewed the films that Harker had intended for them to see all along, those of his wife and her many lovers. That was something both of them had always known was coming, a necessary evil of the job. It was just… watching what amounted to porn with Granger, of all people…

He cast a covert glance at her. She was staring, wide-eyed and transfixed, at the ethereal screen, her expression equal parts repulsion, disbelief, and fascination. And something else besides. Swallowing hard, she licked her lips slowly. There it was, that same little pink tongue that had so captivated him the night before. He’d been only slightly pissed at that point, the shower having done wonders to clear his head, though before much longer, he’d be fully in the throes of the aphrodisiac spiking their drinks. He was completely sober now, though, and yet… there was a stirring in his loins that he couldn’t deny, desire igniting a fiery tingling all along his nerve endings. Fuck it all, the truth was, even before he’d had a single sip of that damned drink last night, he’d wanted her. Watching that little tongue flicking over her lips, he wanted her now.

“ _Desine!_ ” he muttered abruptly, and the figures on the screen froze and then vanished as the vapour was sucked back into the camera.

It was as if cold water had been thrown in Hermione’s face. Abruptly, she shuddered and then looked at Draco. “Oh!”

“Cat got your tongue, Granger?” he teased, plastering a smirk on his face. Pathetic, he knew, but it was the best cover he could muster on such short notice.

Pursing her lips in annoyance, she grabbed his arm. “Come on, Malfoy! We’ve got to get out of here!”

Nodding, because of course she was quite right, he muttered a quick incantation to replace the cube in the mirror, hoping the fact that it had been tampered with wouldn’t be obvious. Obediently, it flew into place with a click (so much easier to put it back than it had been to get it down, Draco noticed irritably). So far, so good.

“Who knows if his girlfriend has any idea at all what he’s been up to? It’s one thing if she’s consented,” he said under his breath, as they made a hasty exit from the room.

“But if not…” Hermione began, frowning.

“Exactly. That’s why we’ve got to find out what’s in at least one of the other cameras. If there was no knowledge or consent, and we can prove that he’s been secretly filming his friends as well, maybe even drugging them like he did us, that’s it. We’ve got him.”

Draco shook his head in frustration. He knew damned well that right now, they had very little. Without corroborating evidence, it might as well be nothing. It was unlikely that Philippa Llewellyn would willingly testify against her long-time lover. The look on Hermione’s face told him that she knew this too.

They set off together down the corridor. Halfway along, Draco abruptly yanked Hermione into a room he had scouted earlier. It was the work of a minute to extract the camera from its hiding place in the wardrobe door.

This time, Draco intoned the words. Immediately, the now-familiar vapour began snaking out of the camera in a thin stream, wafting up into the air.

“Jackpot,” he said softly.

Before them was the expected boudoir tableau, but the actors this time were three in number: Charles Fitzhugh, classmate and business associate of Harker’s, in bed with his lover, Sabine Faulkner-- and _her_ lover, Alastair Morecombe, Harker’s personal assistant. Sabine lay supine between the two men, the proceedings apparently already well along.

It wasn’t even necessary to Animate the image. The picture was damning enough as a still.

Hastily, Draco slipped the camera back into place in the wardrobe door, securing it, and then turned to Hermione.

“Reckon we’ve got more than we need to charge Harker on a slew of counts. Not least of which,” he added with disgust, “is being a filthy old lech who gets off watching his friends fuck and is on the pull with women young enough to be his kids and then some. And I bet that’s not all.”

He would confide his worst suspicions to Hermione soon enough. Just now, they needed to get themselves out of this incriminating environment and back to their own room and safety.

“Come on,” he said briskly, taking her hand. “We need to talk. But not here.”

*

“Invasion of privacy. No question at all there. And voyeurism. Harker hasn’t admitted to it, not yet anyway, but I reckon we’ll have no trouble making that one stick as well. And then, there’s the possible illegal sale and distribution of the tapes.” Draco sat forward in his chair, lacing his fingers together as he spoke. There was a slight flush to his cheeks.

“We believe,” Hermione broke in, her eyes alive with excitement, “that there might possibly be a link to a larger, more pervasive pornography ring. There’s a huge one rumoured to be operating out of Knockturn Alley, as you know.”

“We’ve all known about it for years. We just haven’t been able to prove it!” Draco muttered, and both Hermione and Middleton nodded.

“Right. Assuming it’s true, though, we might have Harker on a corruption-of-minors charge as well,” Hermione continued, “depending on just how far-reaching the porn ring is. More and more wizarding families are using computers now. If Harker’s stuff has somehow made it into the hands of kids, via, say, the Internet…”

“Huh!” Draco folded his arms with a mirthless laugh. “They can get it easily enough right on the street. Skanks and lowlifes crawling all over Knockturn Alley, aren’t there.”

Cepheus Middleton held up a warning hand. “ _If_ , in fact, we can prove that such a porn ring does actually exist, and _if_ Harker did cultivate such a disreputable connexion, and if, in fact, he _has_ sold and/or distributed copies of the films. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?” He took a bracing sip of tea and sat back in his leather chair. Very strong tea today. He had not been prepared for what Malfoy and Granger had dumped in his lap upon returning from their weekend in Devon. It wasn’t even lunchtime and already, he felt shell-shocked. “Those are three very big ‘ifs.’ And we must be able to prove them beyond a reasonable doubt.”

“Oh, of course, sir!” Hermione nodded avidly. “Understood. Absolutely.”

Middleton sighed. Merlin spare him the attentions of ambitious, over-eager young solicitors! Wearily, he put down his teacup. It met the saucer with a loud _clink._

Draco rolled his eyes, biting back a snicker. Leaning close to Hermione, he whispered, “Leave it, Granger. The old man’s about to blow.” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and caught the flash of a cheeky grin. He dropped his voice even lower. “And so am I.”

“Piss off, Malfoy!” she whispered back, turning her attention back to her notes, though it seemed to Middleton, observing the pair, that she was curiously serene. There was even the barest hint of a smile on her face, though he could tell that she was studiously trying to stifle it. Interesting. Perhaps his gamble had paid off after all. He would have to keep an eye on the two of them.

“Right, then, you lot. You’ve got your work cut out for you,” Middleton announced briskly, slapping his palms on the desk. “Off you go.”

The Ministry was housed in a very old building, its doors and windows impossibly narrow. As they left Middleton’s outer office, neither of them paying attention, Hermione and Draco found themselves attempting to pass through the doorway at the same time, and instead, becoming wedged together in the cramped space. The middle of Draco’s expensively tailored chest was now in Hermione’s direct line of sight and only an inch from her face, the top of her head now functioning as an unavoidable chin rest.

Cocking his head slightly to one side and lifting his chin away from hair that was tickling it, Draco sighed. “Hmm. Not exactly the scenario I had in mind,” he remarked.

“For what?” Hermione was busy studying the buttons on Malfoy’s shirt. They were pearly. Very attractive. As was the shirt itself. Well made. Her dad liked shirts like this, she remembered.

“For asking you out to dinner.” He shrugged lightly. “If, you know, you happen to fancy a meal out sometime.”

“Dinner?” She bent her head closer and took a whiff. Malfoy smelled really good. Clean and fresh, like rain, she decided. “I suppose that might be nice.”

 _Nice?_ Was that the most enthusiastic response she could muster? And then he felt her nose pressing against his chest once again, and she gave a small, contented sigh.

“When?”

He grinned. That was more like it. “Tonight. I’ve already booked a table. That is to say… I called in, just to see if…” He gave a quick, embarrassed laugh. “Anyway, eight o’clock, yeah? Oh, and… wear that little black frock you had on at Harker’s party.”

So he had noticed. She squeezed her eyes shut for a second and smiled. “Yes, all right.”

Carefully, then, they began a sort of shuffling, sliding dance, half erotic and half just plain comical, and finally found themselves free. For just a second or two longer, they stood very close, and then both stepped back.

“Right. Let’s get cracking, Granger. Work to do. I’m going to put that bastard away!”

Draco strode off, the grin on his face positively cocky and growing wider with each step. Hermione watched him for a moment before following, one hand on her hip, and then shook her head. The man was unbelievable. Utterly incorrigible. Absurdly egotistical. And completely impossible.

“What do you mean, _you’re_ going to put that bastard away?” she called after him, hurrying to catch up. “Think again, Malfoy!”

From their office down the hall, there was a snort of laughter.

Merlin, he did love this job.

  


Epilogue

Six months later

  
Draco drew a sharp breath and inched slightly closer to the floating screen that hovered, mist-like, three feet above the bed.

The figures on the screen, a man and a woman, moved sinuously, skin to skin, against the backdrop of a large, well-appointed bed. Their lovemaking was heated, frantic, driven by a rough, pounding, visceral passion, and yet incredibly sensual as well. Moments of great tenderness and intimacy—brief interludes, when both he and she seemed to awaken from the haze of intense arousal and really _see_ one another—were breathtaking to witness.

As he lay there, propped up on one elbow, unable to look away, a series of potent emotions stirred him once again. He felt it all, and what he felt was written all over his face: keen excitement laced with a touch of danger and the forbidden; unreasoning lust; the beauty and poignancy of a man and a woman coming together as one flesh, all of it driven by relentless, utterly primal need and desire. Two spots of colour burned high on his cheeks and his breathing became shallow, one hand finding its way inside his jeans where it remained, offering scant relief. It didn’t matter how many times he watched. Every time was like the first.

The sound of the front door shutting woke him from his lust-driven reverie. A moment later, the bedroom door opened.

“ _Again?_ ”

Hermione stood in the doorway, one hand on her hip, and shook her head. She couldn’t help laughing. “This is the second time this week alone! Aren’t you sick of it by now? You must know it by heart!”

Draco leaned back on the pillows, his grin decidedly wolfish. “I do, in fact. It’s my new favourite. Better than—”

“Those pornographic comics of yours?” she filled in tartly. “Not to mention all those issues of Wizarding Wenches you’ve got stashed about the flat.”

“Oh, you found those, did you?” Draco drawled, completely and cheerfully unrepentant. “Yep, better, even, than all that lot.” He slid over on the pillows and patted the bed. “Come here, you.”

Happily, she obeyed, plopping herself down on the bed and curling up beside him.

“I got take-away,” she murmured, nuzzling his neck. “Thai. Sound good?”

“Mmm. Very good.” He paused, and then flashed her a playfully wicked grin. “We can eat whilst we watch, yeah? It’ll be fun.”

Hermione eyed him for a long moment, her lips twitching, and then sighed, settling back on the pillows to watch the images along with him. In truth, she understood completely why he was so attached to this tape. It was pretty amazing, really—so deeply personal and… well… _hot_. Undeniably, incredibly hot. She shivered suddenly.

“I’ve always meant to ask, Malfoy,” she murmured, her eyes fixed on the screen. “How ever did you manage to get your hands on it anyway? I mean, all of the tapes were put into evidence. They had to have been.”

“Oh, yeah, ‘course they were. But… well… Middleton didn’t twig to the possibility that _we_ might have been filmed as well. Naturally, you didn’t say anything, and I sure as hell didn’t say anything either. Instead, I just… you know… sort of…”

“Pinched it.” Hermione rolled her eyes. Merlin, he really was incorrigible.

“Yeah.” He glanced at her sideways. _Hah, definite grin there, Granger, even though you’re trying so hard not to show it._ He settled back against the pillows, his own mouth twitching.

“Discreetly, no doubt.”

“Mmm, very.”

Their eyes met and both laughed. Then he glanced at her curiously. “Hey, talking about the case-- there’s something I’ve always meant to ask you as well. Did Harker ever tell you anything more about that spell he created? You know, the one to Unseal the cameras?”

Hermione frowned for a moment, thinking back. And then suddenly she nodded vigorously. She’d just remembered something, a very small detail.

“Yes! He did, actually! I’d forgotten all about it until now. It _was_ an acronym, you were right. It helped Harker remember the spell. He was a history buff in school, see, especially anything to do with early Europe. Tribal conquests, all that. He drew on that when he created the acronym.”

Draco nodded. “Go on, then. What’s the acronym?”

“In Illyrium are Ostrogoths and Eagles. I I O E. See?”

He shook his head. “What the bloody hell…? No, it’s okay, you don’t have to tell me,” he added quickly, seeing Hermione open her mouth, and then he chuckled. “I know. You looked it up, right?”

Grinning sheepishly, she nodded. And then she began running a finger lightly over his arm in a teasing caress. “Let’s not talk about Harker or the case anymore. He’s in Azkaban where he belongs.”

Draco snorted. “And she was lucky to come away with the house in Italy and one of the cars, and not get dragged through the press, Muggle or wizarding! _And_ we’re well on our way to cracking that porn ring, at last. I would venture to say, my love, that because of us, the Ministry’s come out of all this smelling like a rose, instead of the usual hippogriff shit.”

He lay back, raising his arms so that she could lift his t-shirt over his head. Moving higher on the pillows, she resumed stroking him. “Mmm… nice,” he sighed.

Small, butterfly kisses on the sweet spot beneath his right ear now took the place of tickling fingers.

Daft, watching a tape when he had the real thing.

Hermione could not have agreed more.

“ _Desine!_ ” she murmured, with a lazy loop of her wand, and then, “ _Evanesco!"_

The images hung on the air for just a moment longer and then dissolved into a trail of white mist. In turn, it disappeared back into the tiny camera, which promptly vanished with a _pop_. A second later, there was the ping of a very small object striking the bottom of the wastebasket.

He knew it was there, and moreover, that _she_ knew he knew it. He would fish it out again later. It was a game they played. Right now, though, a far more enjoyable game awaited.

  


Fin

  
My perfect Crispin Harker, the actor Pierce Brosnan. (Apologies to Mr. Brosnan, who, I am sure, is nothing like Harker!)

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view%C2%A4t=AroundParkCity2009SundanceFilmFestivalgEFxoKtZ-qEl-1.jpg)

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view%C2%A4t=images-4.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view%C2%A4t=Greatest2009SundanceScreeningeXXFPFQtIIjl.jpg)

  


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The Gallica Rose, Charles de Mills variety

  
These pics are of the Harker family seat in Devon. For the exteriors, the informal sitting room and the dining room, I used Horswell House, South Milton, Kingsbridge, Devon, currently on offer for a cool £4,000,000. The kitchen and views of hills and the entry road are from a house in Bodmin, Cornwall. The reception room and formal sitting room are from Ebberly House, Roborough, Winkleigh, Devon. The garden is at Trenethick Manor, Wendron, Cornwall.

  


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The beautiful West Country

  


  


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Imagine this garden but bigger, with a much larger patio.

  


**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thanks, first of all, to my amazing beta, mister_otter. She was with me all through the writing, always ready to offer a thoroughly engaged and very helpful response whenever I sent her pages. Hugs, Carol!
> 
> This story was written for Hawthorn & Vine's 2010 Reverse Challenge, in which writers were given a piece of art and had to create a piece of fiction interpreting it. Mine was a wonderfully evocative manip by liltinybee:  
> [  
> ](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=i3W7G3NIf53-2.jpg)
> 
>  **Buck’s Fizz** — A drink made with champagne and orange juice that is popular at breakfast or brunch. Sometimes other ingredients, such as grenadine, are added. In the States, it’s known as a Mimosa.
> 
>  **M’lud** — The way a lawyer traditionally addresses a judge in British courts. It is a bastardized version of “Milord,” which in turn derived from “My lord.”
> 
>  **To call in** — To stop by somewhere ( as opposed to **stopping** , which means staying overnight.)
> 
> “In Illyrium are Ostrogoths and Eagles”— Thousands of years ago, Illyrium was the name of the region in Europe that would eventually become Albania. It included all of the former Yugoslavia and parts of Greece. Over the centuries, and particularly in the waning days of the Roman Empire, Illyrium was often invaded by barbarian tribes, including the Ostrogoths. In the 16th century, the land became known as Shqiperia, or Land of the Eagle, the name deriving from “shqipe,” their word for “eagle.” Hence, Harker’s acronym.
> 
>  
> 
> **Spells:**
> 
>  
> 
>  _Lumos Candidas!_ — Bright light! (Lat.)  
>  _Imperceptus_ — Unperceived (Lat.)  
>  _Impenetrabilis_ — Impenetrable (Lat.)  
>  _Occultus_ — Hidden, concealed (Lat.)  
>  _Expositus_ — Open, accessible (Lat.)  
>  _Anima!_ — Animate! (Latin imperative)  
>  _Desine!_ — Stop, cease! (Latin imperative)


End file.
